


Primed

by Saucery



Series: Hartwin Stories [17]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Age Difference, Alpha Harry, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bondage, Cock Rings, Collars, Consent Issues, Crime Fighting, Crimes & Criminals, Cross-Generation Relationship, Dark, Dom/sub, Drama, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Filthy, Government Agencies, Implied Mpreg, In Public, Jealousy, Knotting, Loss of Control, Lust, M/M, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Mates, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mission Fic, Misunderstandings, Nipple Piercings, No actual mpreg, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Omega Eggsy, Omega Verse, Orders, Organized Crime, Pining, Plotty, Porn With Plot, Possessive Behavior, Power Imbalance, Powerlessness, Prostitution, Public Blow Jobs, Public Nudity, Public Sex, Romance, Scent Kink, Scent Marking, Scenting, Secret Identity, Secret Organizations, Sex Toys, Sexual Slavery, Size Difference, Size Kink, Spies & Secret Agents, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 20:32:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4451291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Eggsy don’t know they’re mates. They’re about to find out… in the worst way possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Primed

* * *

 

Eggsy is kneeling by Terrence Carmichael’s office chair when Harry walks in the door.

Eggsy also happens to be wet, the plug inside him vibrating with a barely-audible hum, and his knees are spread on the silk cushion beside Carmichael’s desk. The silk is now stained in dark patches, because he’s been leaking onto it, from the front and the back, his cock hard and untouched, his hole full but not full _enough_ , and he’s—

He never wanted Harry to see him like this.

He doesn’t turn his face away, however, red as he’s sure it is, because Carmichael’s trained Eggsy to be a shameless little Omega—or thinks he’s trained Eggsy, anyway, and Eggsy can’t afford to disabuse him of that notion. If Carmichael weren’t so assured of Eggsy’s harmlessness, Eggsy wouldn’t have made it into the inner sanctum of Carmichael Industries, the pseudo-legal corporation concealing an Omega-smuggling operation that Kingsman has been trying to shut down for more than three years.

That Harry is here means they’ve unearthed sufficient evidence and that they’re ready for extraction. Eggsy’s undercover duty is nearing completion.

He shifts as Harry’s eyes ghost over him, without quite seeing him, because Harry’s likely playing a typical, wealthy Alpha client, who is accustomed to seeing Omegas on display on a daily basis.

That Eggsy’s throat goes dry, and that he gets wetter at just having Harry in the same room, is something that he desperately hopes neither of the Alphas notices. Because if Carmichael notices it, he’ll wonder why the sodding hell his favorite Omega is so eager for a stranger, and if Harry notices it, he’ll—he’ll realize what he is to Eggsy. And that’s just humiliating, that Eggsy’s stupid, delusional body has long since decided that Harry’s his mate, when clearly Harry isn’t, or he wouldn’t be able to tolerate Carmichael and Carmichael’s endless stream of “guests” fucking Eggsy like they do.

Eggsy prays, to every god he doesn’t believe in, that Carmichael won’t demand a demonstration from him, today. Not in Harry’s presence. Especially not _with_ Harry. That’ll be the end of every pretense Eggsy has been clinging to, desperately, from the moment Harry recruited him.

“Mr. Abernathy,” says Carmichael, rising from his desk in an uncommon gesture of courtesy, a gesture that, when performed by an Alpha towards another Alpha, indicates the utmost respect. He extends his hand for a cordial handshake, and Harry accepts it as if it is his due. Damn. Just how much money did “Abernathy” pay the corporation, to merit treatment like that?

“Mr. Carmichael,” Harry returns, indifferently, relinquishing Carmichael’s hand and taking the seat opposite his desk without being invited. “I understand you have a few matches for me.”

“Yes, well.” Carmichael’s smile tightens at Harry’s presumption, but promptly relaxes, because he’s a businessman before he’s an Alpha, and profit is everything. “You have a most impressive pedigree, sir, dating back centuries, and it is no surprise that you have struggled to find an Omega capable of… handling… your prowess.”

“Flattery is unnecessary,” Harry says, in a bored tone. Like he gets it everyday. “I am aware of the rarity of my genetic make-up, and the nigh-impossibility of finding a mate. I no longer aspire to find one; all I aim for is an Omega capable of surviving my heats intact.”

Eggsy’s heart beats quicker, and he concentrates on Harry’s shoes, those perfectly polished Oxfords, because his biology doesn’t need the reminder that Harry’s a Prime, with a knot that lasts for _hours_ , and a stamina that is rumored to be insurmountable. Nor does Eggsy’s self-esteem need the reminder that Harry’s too good for him, that Eggsy’s practically gutter-trash compared to the Omegas Harry would even consider for casual encounters, let alone a bonding.

Omegas have Primes, too—those whose heats are so intense that they are transported to states bordering on insensate, and that their desire peaks with the pain of being penetrated by a Prime Alpha, instead of waning. The challenge is that Prime Omegas do not present as Prime until actually knotted by an Alpha of their class, by their specific mate. Thus, Prime Alphas are eternally on the hunt, using up and discarding Omegas like dirty rags, searching for the mate that will truly satisfy them.

Eggsy has had fantasies, of course, about being a secret Prime, about attracting Harry’s interest and proving himself in a heat. He’s dreamt silly, embarrassing daydreams about being the Prime Omega that will sate Harry’s appetite, that will bear his cubs, and that they will wake up bonded, on the dawn after their first knotting, with Eggsy already carrying Harry’s litter.

Cubs cannot be conceived by pairs that are not bondmates. It is nature’s contraceptive, and Eggsy’s only comfort during his own lonely heats has been the knowledge that so far, Harry has fathered no cubs, and that Eggsy can continue daydreaming about him for the time being.

Until Harry does find a match. And who knows? Maybe he will, with this assignment. Because Carmichael makes it his business to supply every sort of client with every sort of Omega, from all over the world, and the matches he has found for “Abernathy” may convert into a successful bonding for Harry.

Eggsy should be happy for him. Sad, that this twisted charade is the closest Harry has ever gotten to fulfillment, and that Harry should have to meet his mate this way, but happy that his mentor will, at last, be bonded. Eggsy is twenty-two, and is already in an agony of loneliness throughout his heats, even if he picks up an Alpha to fuck him; the Alpha always feels like a stand-in, a mockery of what Eggsy _should_ be having. If it’s so unbearable for Eggsy, to be unbonded at such a young age, he can scarcely conceive of the torment Harry’s solitude would be, given that Harry is nearly fifty.

How many desolate heats has Harry endured? How many loveless, mechanical couplings?

Eggsy should be happy that Harry has a chance at contentment. Perverse as the circumstances may be, if they lead to Harry’s joy, should they not lead to Eggsy’s joy, as well?

But they can’t, and they won’t. It makes Eggsy petty _and_ pathetic, unworthy of Harry in both character and physiology, but standing by uselessly while Harry is mated to somebody else will sting like a salted wound, and Eggsy, despite being tutored in deception, will fail at deceiving his colleagues that he is just a proud recruit attending his mentor’s bonding ceremony.

God, no. The idea—just the _idea_ —

“Abel,” says Carmichael, and Eggsy startles back into awareness of his surroundings, “be a dear and fetch us some tea, would you? Two cups of Darjeeling.”

“Yes, Master,” Eggsy replies, and gets up from his cushion, naked and aroused as he his. Harry’s gaze finally catches on him, as it should, given that Eggsy is adorned as per Carmichael’s preferences, diamond-studded hoops at his nipples and a solid gold ring around the base of his cock. Harry’s—no, Abernathy’s—expression flickers with a peculiar combination of absent-minded lust and condescension, like Eggsy’s decorations are a tad too gaudy for his tastes.

“He is gauche, I admit,” Carmichael says, as if guessing Harry’s thoughts, “but a pet as pretty as that deserves a collar just as pretty, no?”

Eggsy swallows under the titanium-and-gold collar that encircles his neck, and tells himself not to be humiliated by the symbol of ownership, of dehumanization. This is the mission. He’s a slave, here, not a respectable Omega. He’s nobody’s mate, and everybody’s entertainment. And he’s okay with it. He has to be.

He ambles to the electric kettle in the rear of the office, loose-limbed and relaxed, unselfconsciously seductive. He glances at Harry from under his lashes as he passes by, coyly, because that’s what Carmichael expects. Eggsy is supposed to solicit the appreciation of the flowing lines of his limbs, the sway of his hips. Carmichael doesn’t bother with possessions that do not inspire envy. Eggsy is a showpiece. That’s the point.

Harry admires him, obligingly, but there is an air of it being an obligation, a formality intended to assuage Carmichael’s pride, and Carmichael is predictably irked by it.

“I should inform you,” Carmichael says, with just a hint of sharpness, “that my Abel is among your matches.”

Eggsy almost trips over his own feet. Thankfully, he resumes his graceful trek to the bar-slash-kitchenette without too noticeable an interruption, and switches the kettle on to boil, when he reaches it. The marble platform that juts from the wall has several crystalline jars filled with fresh tea leaves and sugars of varying levels of granularity and rawness. There’s milk, chilling in a capped jug that sits tilted in a large bowl of ice, mimicking a bottle of champagne in an ice-bath.

“Is that so?” Harry says, noncommittally, like Eggsy’s pulse isn’t pounding rabbit-fast with disbelief. “His genes have potential, I take it?”

“Yes,” Carmichael says, his sharpness fading into pleasant professionalism. “There are four candidates in total, Mr. Abernathy. If none of them are mate material, we will charge our standard fee for sexual services, but if we _have_ discovered your mate, then…” He laughs. “The finding fee will be sizable.”

“Price is no object,” Harry responds, but with no particular optimism, as though he has been disappointed by organizations like Carmichael’s in the past. After all, a Prime of Abernathy’s social status would have exhausted all legitimate matchmaking agencies before resorting to the illegal slave-trade. “Let us see if I even knot any of them, before proceeding with groundless speculations, shall we?”

“As you say,” Carmichael concedes, just as Eggsy finishes preparing the tea and places the steaming cups on their delicate china saucers before arranging them on a silver tray. “Abel will provide a preview prior to the initial deposit, if you wish.”

Eggsy… doesn’t drop the tray. He carries it to Harry, who takes a cup. Eggsy puts the leftover cup on Carmichael’s desk, next to the blotter. He stacks the empty tray atop the tea platform, and resumes kneeling at Carmichael’s side.

The cushion is cooler under his knees than it was before, which signifies that his basal temperature has gone up, and his breathing is shallower. He’s unable to keep from squirming subtly at the prospect of Harry sampling him, even if only as an appetizer before a feast of Carmichael’s finest Omegas.

“Look at how slutty he is,” Carmichael says, fondly, “excited at the mere mention of a fucking.” He presses the sole of his shoe against Eggsy’s bobbing, still-leaking erection.

Eggsy gasps.

“He seems suitably keen,” Harry observes, as if commenting on the weather. He sips his tea, his focus drifting away from Eggsy to the view from the window, a vista of manicured green lawns and rose gardens. “But he might require heat activators to survive my… attentions.”

“Abel? On heat activators?” Carmichael chuckles. “Trust me, he doesn’t need them. Never has, and he’s had a Prime, before.”

“Has he?” Harry sets his cup down on its saucer. “How interesting.”

“The only other Prime we’ve had in our illustrious history. Roughed him up a bit, but did no lasting damage. Abel is an exquisite creature, wetter than a rainy day in the monsoon season, and he’s so sensitive as to require no chemical interventions whatsoever. It’s part of what makes him an ideal partner for you. I’m not saying he’s a Prime—the probability of locating a Prime Omega is infinitesimal—but he might be an acceptable temporary replacement. And there are the remaining Omegas you’ll try, all boys and girls of the highest caliber. I’m certain you’ll enjoy them all.”

“I have no doubt that I will,” Harry says, as blandly as ever. Abernathy must be a jaded bastard. “When do the demonstrations begin? You may have the liberty to idle away, Mr. Carmichael, but I have an estate to run, and this holiday is costing me precious income.”

In spite of the implied insult, Carmichael maintains his politeness with a dogged determination. Eggsy’s curious about what Abernathy’s “estate” is; it could be a shipping empire or a media conglomerate or a vineyard. Whatever it is, it’s lucrative enough to soothe Carmichael’s affronted ego.

“We’ll begin this afternoon, when you’ll be introduced to your matches. Abel will warm you up, as he’s so very talented at doing, and you may proceed to take your pleasure from him or from any of the matches that you fancy. Perhaps even all of them in a row, eh? Given a Prime Alpha’s vitality?” Carmichael smirks.

Harry regards him steadily.

Carmichael coughs. “At any rate, the demonstrations will conclude whenever you conclude your, ah, trial of all the Omegas. If any of them meets your standards for occasional heat-companions, you may judge your search at least partially ended, and if any of them is your mate… It’ll be lucky in the extreme.”

Lucky for Carmichael, definitely, given that his so-called finder’s fee probably numbers in the millions.

“And where will I stay, throughout this process?”

“I’ll have my secretary show you to your private suite, where you will be offered a light brunch and any reading materials or technological gadgets you request. Once you have eaten and rested, we’ll bring the Omegas to you.”

“Excellent,” says Harry, in Abernathy’s apparently unshakable monotone. He deposits his empty teacup on Carmichael’s desk, and doesn’t spare Eggsy so much as a leer when Carmichael dings the bell for his secretary, a bustling Beta woman with a bobcut, who guides Harry out.

“He’s a tough nut to crack,” Carmichael sighs, and settles back in his padded chair, legs slightly apart in an unspoken command. Eggsy immediately gets to work, unzipping him, allowing the very real hunger Harry had roused in him to feed his false hunger for Carmichael’s prick. “But you’ll crack him, won’t you, Abel?”

“Yes, Master,” Eggsy says, but then his mouth is full, and he can’t say anything, at all.

 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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